


Absolute Beginners

by cattajonze



Category: The Monkees (Band), The Monkees (TV)
Genre: I just wanted to write something cute without anyone crying for once, M/M, STARRING DAVY'S BIG BISEXUAL ENERGY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:00:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22389820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cattajonze/pseuds/cattajonze
Summary: “Did you know Davy dated a guy?” Micky blurted.Peter shrugged. “Does it matter?”Micky considered. “No, but… all those girls… I guess I kind of always thought you had to pick one or the other.”Peter raised his eyebrows. “Is that what you did?”
Relationships: Micky Dolenz/Davy Jones
Comments: 14
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

“Uh Davy,” Micky said. “Hey Davy.”

They were standing in the produce section of Malibu’s grocery store, in a corner between the bananas and the oranges. Micky held the shopping basket preciously by one handle while Davy scrutinized Mike’s grocery list, puzzling over chicken scratch that looked more like stick figures than words.

“Davy,” Micky repeated.

Davy looked up, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

“Uh, what does a banana have in common with Davy Jones?” Micky asked, and before Davy could react, he continued. “They’re both a-peel-ing.”

Davy rolled his eyes. “Not your best, Mick.”

“In that case, I gotta split,” Micky added. “Ha. Ha. Get it? Banana split—”

Davy ignored him. “Hey, *you* have terrible handwriting. Can you read what Mike wrote here?” He thrust the list toward Micky.

“I don’t think that’s how handwriting works,” Micky said, scratching his head, but he took a look anyway. “This one’s either clipboards or diapers.”

Davy wrinkled his nose, taking the list back and squinting at the words. “I don’t think either of those are ingredients in Texas chili.” He sighed. “Mike was right, we _can’t_ handle grocery shopping alone.”

“Wait— it says peppers!” Micky exclaimed. He grabbed Davy’s arm and dragged him toward another section of produce. Together, they marveled over the selection of peppers: yellow, red, orange, hot, sweet, bell… Mike had not specified what kind of pepper to buy. “What would you give me if I ate one of these habaneros? No wait, what would you give me to put it in my—”

Micky stopped speaking abruptly. Davy’s face had gone blank, his eyes focused somewhere behind Micky.

“David Jones,” said a man’s voice, deep and friendly. Micky whirled around and saw a handsome man in his late 30s walking toward the two of them. “It’s been a long time.”

Micky looked at the man, at Davy, back at the man, and finally back at Davy, who had dropped Mike’s grocery list and seemed strangely speechless. 

“Yeah, it has,” Davy said finally, dumbly.. “Do you… live here now?”

“I’m staying at a hotel down the street this week trying to get a contract settled,” the man said. He glanced at Micky. “Hello—”

Davy interrupted, speaking briskly. His tone was not cold, but his words were clipped, anxious. “This is my friend Micky. We’re in a group together. He’s our drummer.” 

“Oh,” the man said, smiling and offering his hand to Micky. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Ben. David and I go way back. Say, maybe I’ll have a chance to see your group play while I’m here.”

Micky shook Ben’s hand and nodded enthusiastically. “We’re playing just a few blocks over at Club Cassandra on Friday night,” he said, ignoring Davy’s stifled objection.

“Great,” the man said finally, flashing Davy a warm smile. He retrieved the forgotten grocery list from the floor, pulled a pen from his jacket pocket, and neatly wrote the name of a hotel and a room number. “Why don’t you give me a call? We can get dinner, catch up.”

Davy accepted the slip of paper, letting Ben’s fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary as their hands made contact. He nodded almost imperceptibly, noncommittally. 

When Ben was out of earshot, Micky whirled around, trying to catch Davy’s eye as Davy busied himself with the peppers, piling two of each kind into the shopping basket. “ _Who_ was _that_?”

Davy’s face was taking on a pinkish tinge— _he’s blushing_ , Micky thought, realizing with a perverse glee that he’d never seen Davy blush before. It was almost too much, Micky reflected. Cute on top of cute. Stiffly, his eyes trained on the bell pepper in his hand, Davy replied, “Someone I knew in San Francisco.”

Micky had to think about this. He followed Davy from the peppers to the onions to the meat counter as he tried to remember the timeline. Davy had toured with a Broadway show from London to Toronto, to New York. The show took him across America via the major cities and ultimately deposited him in San Francisco, where he nearly ran out of money before making his way down to Los Angeles.

“How’d you know him? Was he part of the show?”

Davy’s jaw tightened a little. He still wouldn’t meet Micky’s gaze, but instead examined every package of meat with a stubborn intensity. “We used to go out.”

“Like to bars?”

“No,” Davy said with practiced patience, tossing a package of ground beef into their basket and taking off toward another section of the grocery store. In one hand, he still clutched the slip of paper with the grocery list and Ben’s contact information. He noticed Micky noticing this and stuffed the list into his pocket. “Like, we dated a little.”

Micky stopped walking so suddenly the woman behind him ran right into him. He apologized quickly then jogged to catch up with Davy. “You what?” he asked, assuming he hadn’t heard Davy correctly.

Davy looked at Micky directly now. His expression was blank, but there was an edge to his voice. “We. Used. To. Date. Come on, Mick, don’t look at me like that.”

Micky put a hand to his cheek, unaware that he’d been making any expression at all. He found, with some chagrin, that his face was contorted with confusion. “Sorry, Davy, it’s just that, you know, you date girls. A lot of them.”

“Well, sometimes I date guys,” Davy replied, now sounding more obviously irritated.

“ _Do_ you?”

Davy’s face flushed again, a little pinker than before. “Not recently,” he admitted. He retrieved the paper from his pocket and frowned at Peter’s section of the list. “Why does Peter want us to buy prenatal vitamins?”

“He thinks they’ll make his hair grow faster. He read about it in a ladies’ magazine when we were at the dentist last week.” Micky grabbed the slip of paper from Davy. “This is an expensive hotel. Are you going to call him?”

“Mind your own business,” Davy said with some finality. He snatched the paper back and ran his thumb down the list as he re-checked the basket for each item. “Okay, Mike explicitly told me not to let you buy any more baking soda, vinegar, or matches, so I think we’re done here.”

Micky complained about these omissions as they waited in the checkout line, but it was just for show. He’d already lost interest in the bottle rocket experiment he’d planned for that afternoon. Suddenly he was much more curious about Davy.

***

That night, just after Mike reached over to turn off the lamp between their beds, Micky piped up, “Hey Mike, have you ever liked a guy?”

Mike had spent the entire afternoon making his “famous Texas chili.” He had repeatedly complained it would have been easier to drive to Texas to cook it, because in Texas he didn’t have to endure Micky’s nonstop questions, pacify Davy’s constant need for attention, or give Peter trivial, non-knife-wielding responsibilities so that he could feel like he was contributing to dinner without risk of injuring himself. 

Mike had run out of patience for Micky’s antics hours ago. There was a long silence in the dark as though he were contemplating whether he could realistically pretend to be asleep. Finally, Micky heard him sigh in resignation. “Christ, Micky, are you really asking me this right now?” 

“Can a guy like girls _and_ guys? I mean, hypothetically,” Micky continued, hoping Mike might be more amenable to this rephrasing.

“I reckon it’s none of my business,” Mike said wearily. “Please. Micky. Go to sleep. We can discuss the spectrum of human sexuality tomorrow.”

But Micky couldn’t sleep. He was trying to picture Davy kissing the man from the grocery store, though he was having trouble recalling the details of Ben’s face. He’d seen Davy kiss so many girls that he felt he could draw that part of the scene from memory: the way Davy’s features fit against a girl’s features like a perfectly proportioned puzzle piece, and the way he wrapped his arms around their small waists, a gesture that almost always made Micky’s stomach twist with envy. Micky fell asleep picturing Davy leaning toward a faceless man, Davy’s familiar expression of longing etched with singular, impossible clarity against the inscrutable vagueness of an imaginary partner.


	2. Chapter 2

In the morning, Micky stumbled lazily down the spiral staircase, unsurprised to find the living room and kitchen empty. Unless he made an effort to wake up early, everyone usually ate breakfast and started their day without him. There was just enough coffee left for one cup, and even though it was cold, Micky poured it into a mug and took it to the veranda to see what was going on down at the beach.

It wasn’t a particularly warm morning, and their section of beach was relatively deserted. If it were warmer, Davy might be laying in the sun, working on his tan while Peter noodled around on his acoustic guitar nearby. Mike would be sitting in the shade, if he was outside at all— he sunburned easily. But this morning the Pad and beach both seemed deserted.

Micky wandered back inside and poked his head into Peter and Davy’s room. Davy’s bed was made neatly, as usual. He kept his side of the room tidy— Micky supposed this was an effect of having shared a small bedroom with 3 sisters. Peter’s side of the room was decidedly more cluttered than Davy’s, though not messy. This was one of the reasons Peter and Davy roomed together; Micky kept most of his clothes in a pile on the floor, and Mike preferred that ‘decor’ to Peter’s “hippie paraphernalia,” as he called it.

On an impulse, Micky peeked into the waste basket in the corner of the room. Was the grocery list with Ben’s hotel information in there, or had Davy kept it? He didn’t want to go digging through Peter and Davy’s trash, but he gave the basket a little kick to see if shifting its contents revealed anything new.

“What are you doing?”

Peter’s voice startled Micky, and he spun around, a hand on his chest. “You almost gave me a heart attack,” Micky gasped. Peter just stood there, his head tilted, waiting for Micky to explain himself. “I was just, uh…”

“Snooping on Davy?” Peter asked. He smiled knowingly, as though he’d expected to find Micky in this exact predicament.

“How did you know?” Micky saw no point in pretending he was doing anything respectable, and besides, he knew Peter would forgive him.

Peter shrugged. “Davy told me you ran into Ben in the supermarket yesterday.”

Micky squirmed, realizing with some embarrassment that he’d gone too far yesterday. This wasn’t the first time Micky had crossed some invisible boundary and looked behind him to realize everyone else could see the line. 

“Did you know he dated a guy?” Micky blurted out in spite of himself. Peter’s expression remained unchanged. “You already knew, didn’t you?” 

The realization stung a little; Micky liked to think he was closest to Davy. Then again, he also liked to think he was closest to Mike. And sometimes Peter, particularly if there was good weed around. In reality, the four of them were in a complex orbit, with different aspects of their still-changing personalities intersecting in various, sometimes unpredictable, ways.

Peter shrugged again. “Does it matter?”

Micky considered. “No,” he decided finally. “But… all those girls… I guess I kind of always thought you had to pick one or the other.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “Is that what you did?” He watched Micky sputter for a moment, amused, then grinned. “It’s cool, man. Anyway, you may have discovered the one thing Davy is shy about.” 

Micky pictured Davy in the supermarket, scowling at a bell pepper while being peppered with questions. He realized he should probably apologize. He and Peter walked out of the bedroom together and Peter snagged his guitar from the bandstand, leaving Micky with plenty to puzzle over.

***

That afternoon, Davy was late to practice. Mike was re-tuning his Gretsch with increasing irritation when the front door swung open and Davy, a little out of breath, began apologizing. He had one of his newer shirts on, Micky realized, and he’d done something slightly different with his hair— it was pushed back from his eyes somehow in a way that looked less boyish, and more mature, than his usual style. Davy caught Micky looking at him and Micky smiled sympathetically.

“Don’t worry, Davy,” he said, trying to preempt Mike’s lecture, hoping it would help Davy forgive him for yesterday’s behavior. “We were just getting started.”

Despite the late start, practice went well. Mike had written up a setlist for the Club Cassandra gig and was willing, for once, to accept Peter’s input, and Davy seemed too distracted to argue for the sake of arguing, something he often did just to get under Mike’s skin, presumably for the attention. Afterward, Mike headed to the grocery store, muttering about needing to find a way to use “all those damn peppers,” and Peter left for Niles’s house— the two of them were trying to start a drum circle, mainly as a way of concentrating all of Malibu’s hippie chicks into a single venue.

Davy lingered in the living room, adjusting their eccentric decor as if the room were on the verge of a cohesive interior design. Micky threw himself on the couch and stared vacantly into a book, feeling awkward. 

“I had lunch with Ben,” Davy said finally, and when Micky looked up, he saw Davy looking at him expectantly, as though he’d given him a dubious gift and didn’t know how it would be received.

“Hm,” Micky grunted, trying to seem casual, though he was already picturing the restaurant, the table, the water glasses….

“I was nervous about it. He loaned me the money to move here and I still can’t repay him,” Davy continued, at the other end of the couch. “I guess that’s why I didn’t want to talk about it yesterday.”

Micky, still sprawled across two couch cushions, righted himself and tossed his book on the coffee table. “I didn’t mean to be nosy. It’s just a lot of new information.” It wasn’t his best apology, but Davy seemed to appreciate the effort.

“Yeah,” Davy agreed. He examined his fingernails, pursing his lips slightly, and let the silence ring on and on. The tension made Micky start laughing helplessly. “What’s so funny?”

“I’m just thinking about—” Micky paused to collect himself. “About all the girls AND guys in Malibu following you around, lovesick.”

“No way.” Davy shook his head. “Ben’s the only guy I’ve ever dated seriously and he basically _paid_ me to move away.” He was kidding, of course, but Micky detected something serious in the joke. Davy seemed to bounce back quickly when relationships ended, but occasionally an aside or joke exposed a detailed memory of the heartbreak.

“But you’ve liked other guys.” Micky said, trying to pass off his question as a statement. Davy nodded slowly, deliberately. “Anybody I know?”

Davy shrugged. “Maybe,” he said evasively. A coy smile crept up one side of his mouth— he knew the non-answer would drive Micky crazy. 

“Davy Jones: intercontinental man of mystery,” Micky said loudly, doing his best impression of a television narrator, then reached over to roughly tousle Davy’s hair back into its regular style before Davy could duck away.

***

That night, Micky dreamed about Ben, still faceless, commuting around Los Angeles in a circular fashion, the spiral shape of his movements edging closer and closer to a location where, Micky somehow knew, Davy would be. He woke before sunrise, disoriented by the chaotic energy the dream imbued. He lay in bed for a long time, trying not to ruminate, until sleep came again.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day something was different, and Micky needed time to think about it. But there wasn’t time. He’d slept badly, and made up for it by sleeping later than usual, and by the time he’d showered and drank half a pot of coffee, it was almost time to leave for their gig at Club Cassandra.

“Why do we have to be at the Cassandra so early, anyway?” he complained as he and Mike changed into matching outfits.

“They have a new manager and a new sound system,” Mike said. “He wanted to hear us run through the setlist before the club opens.”

Micky groaned; playing the same setlist twice in a row was bound to be a drag. “The WHOLE setlist?”

“Don’t complain, man,” Mike added, looking down to button his shirt. “We’re getting paid for that extra time.”

Micky had realized while drinking the coffee that the coffee had been a Very Bad Idea. The ritual had provided a welcoming distraction from his own confusing thoughts, but now he was both physically _and_ mentally uncomfortable. 

“Are you okay?” Peter asked as they packed up the drum kit. “You seem… squirmier then usual.”

“Too much coffee,” Micky hummed in response, drumming a tight little pattern on a guitar case with his hands. 

“Maybe we should double the tempo of ‘Goin’ Down’,” Davy joked. Micky despaired-- his nerves were fried, and he was already afraid he’d forget the lyrics. Davy must have detected some anguish in his face, because he added, “Don’t worry, Mick, the caffeine will wear off by the time we start playing.”

But the problem wasn’t the caffeine, if Micky was honest with himself (though he was trying hard not to be). He found himself obsessing over Davy’s evasive comments yesterday, the hint that he liked someone Micky knew. _Who_ was it? Normally Davy’s romantic ambitions struck randomly, like an asteroid. It was hard to picture Davy pining for someone for more than a minute without compulsively confessing his undying love. Micky had raced through many scenarios repeatedly in his mind, and each one seemed to hurt his feelings a little. What if it was Niles? It seemed like Davy should have better taste than that. What if it was Peter? Another secret they were keeping from Micky. And so on. 

Moreover, he was starting to see two versions of Davy simultaneously: the one he always saw-- his girl-crazy, funny, and mischievous friend— and the one he thought Ben must see: a talented, warm, and generous person who also happened to be cute from every angle.

Micky wondered, a little crazily, if Ben would be at the show. Which made him wonder if Davy was looking forward to seeing him. Which, in turn, made Davy’s expressive face a constant distraction. Which meant, of course, that Micky couldn’t look at Davy. Which was going to be really difficult during not one but TWO full performances, when Davy would be standing right in front of him the entire time.

***

He didn’t have to wonder about Ben for long. Sometime near the end of their “practice” set, Ben poked his head into the club. _What a dork,_ Micky thought. The club wasn’t even open yet. But Ben chatted quietly with the bartender and looked quite at home by the time the set was finished.

“Looks like I’m early,” he said as Davy crossed the room to greet him. “I was in the neighborhood, thought I heard you singing, and decided to get a head start on my evening. You don’t mind, do you?”

Davy smiled broadly, shaking his head, and introduced Ben as his “friend from San Francisco” to Peter and Mike. They waved politely and went back to fiddling with the club’s new sound board under the supervision of the Cassandra’s new manager. 

“You sound great,” Ben added, laying his arm across Davy’s shoulders. Micky felt his stomach twist a little, but ascribed it to caffeine jitters. “Of course, I’m not surprised. You’re so talented.”

“Micky’s our lead singer,” Davy pointed out. “He’s got incredible range.”

Ben did not seem interested in discussing Micky, which was just as well, Micky decided, because he was acutely uninterested in talking to Ben. He wandered backstage to the Cassandra’s green room and cracked open a can of beer, hoping the alcohol would help counteract the caffeine.

A short time later, he heard Mike call Davy’s name and ask him to sing a few bars at each microphone so they could get the sound balanced. Soon, Micky could hear Davy singing lines from “Forget That Girl” at each microphone. He saw Ben walk past the green room doorway to make a call at the payphone just beyond. 

“Hey baby,” Micky heard Ben say. “What are you up to?… yeah, I’ll be heading home tomorrow. I closed the deal today…”

“SHE’LL ONLY MAKE YOU LONELY,” Davy’s voice blared, rattling the framed photos on the green room walls.

“Jesus, Peter, lower volume is COUNTERCLOCKWISE,” Mike shouted.

“Sorry,” Peter yelled. “I got mixed up.”

“… No, I’m calling you from a club,” Ben was saying. “I’m seeing a friend’s band play tonight… I wish I was home, too... I miss you, too, baby.”

Micky frowned, crumpled the empty can, and reached for another. 

***

That night’s set seemed like one of the longest they’d ever played. Micky should have been happy— the Cassandra was a great venue, and they were playing for a packed house. The new sound system really did sound great; even from his less-than-optimal position behind the drums, he could tell that Mike and Peter had done a great job balancing the microphones because when he was harmonizing, it sounded neither too loud nor too soft. 

But every time he looked into the audience, he saw Ben sitting at a table in the corner sipping a drink. It was as if a spotlight were trained upon him. And very time Micky glanced at Ben, Ben’s eyes were locked on Davy. And Davy seemed to be playing to that corner of the room, sending goofy looks in Ben’s direction more often than Micky thought was necessary.

Ben’s obvious enjoyment made Micky angry. He tried to channel it into his drumming but ended up thinking angry thoughts repeatedly, in rhythm. _YOU. Dumb. Cheat. YOU. Don’t. Deserve. Davy._

During “Star Collector,” Micky found himself trying to catch Davy’s eye. Listen to the lyrics, he wanted to say. Stop throwing yourself at people who don’t even appreciate you. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt this way. He could vividly recall the rage he felt when Fern used Davy to advance her career, and how angry he was whenever princesses chucked Davy aside after he’d risked his life to solve their kingdom’s problems.

But something about Ben brought deeply submerged feelings into clear focus for Micky— maybe it was his affluence, the fact that he was older, his blatant unavailability, or simply because he wasn’t a girl, but it seemed achingly clear to Micky that he was very consciously taking advantage of Davy’s open heart. 

Micky remembered that “Star Collector” was the last song of the show just as he was singing the final words. After taking a little bow, and the four of them made their way back to the green room.

“Well, that was excruciating,” Micky mumbled, tossing his drumsticks on the couch as he grabbed another can of beer. 

“What are you talking about? That was one of our best shows ever,” Davy cried, putting an arm around Peter’s shoulders in his typical display of post-performance euphoria. 

“We sounded really good on this sound system,” Mike agreed, watching Micky slug his beer with one eyebrow raised. He touched Micky’s shoulder. “I should have found a way to get you to the front for a couple of songs so you could hear what I heard.”

Micky brushed Mike off, went to the restroom, and when he returned the green room was empty. He found Mike, Peter, and Davy at the bar with Ben, who was buying them a round of drinks. Mike, Peter, and Davy wandered off with their drinks to talk to a group of girls who seemed to attend all their shows, and suddenly, Micky was alone with Ben.

“That was amazing,” Ben said, clinking his pint glass against Micky’s. 

“Thanks,” Micky replied, unable to summon the willpower to be anything more than civil.

“Davy’s got a real talent for making an audience love him,” Ben continued. “You can see it here, but have you ever seen him do theatre? He’s incredible.”

“I think he’s pretty great at _this_ ,” Micky murmured, scanning the room for someone else to talk to. He spotted a couple girls he vaguely recognized from a house party and decided to make a beeline for them, just to get away from Ben. “Thanks for the beer, man.”

Ben made a peculiar motion with his hands— a kind of pathetic gesture, as though he were desperate not to be left alone at the bar with no one to talk to— and Micky felt a surge of satisfaction thinking about it. It was good for Ben to be left alone for awhile. He deserved a little punishment.


	4. Chapter 4

After Micky had used up all his lines on the girls, they wandered away, probably in search of someone who would buy them drinks. He scanned the room and saw Davy and Ben sitting at the corner table. Ben was recounting a story, gesturing with both hands, while Davy giggled in a familiar way, a laughter that made him collapse slightly into himself, become less composed than usual. Micky felt a dark mood descending as he walked over to the table.

“Hey Mick,” Davy said, wiping tears from his eyes. “Ben was just telling me this hilarious—”

“I need to talk to you,” Micky said, leaning over the table. Gravity in the room seemed to shift precariously.

“Oh really?” Davy was still smiling up at him, cheerful and probably a little drunk. “What about?”

“I’d rather discuss it privately,” Micky said, uncomfortably aware of the proximity of Ben’s hand to Davy’s leg.

“Sit down with us,” Davy insisted, patting the chair next to his own. “Why are you all sweaty?”

“Ben’s in a relationship,” Micky blurted, taking a step away from the table. Davy looked at Ben as though Micky had accidentally referred to him by the wrong name— it was a look that said “sorry for my friend,” and not at all the self-preserving indignation Micky had hoped for.

Davy stood, put a hand on Ben’s shoulder, and said he’d be right back. He took Micky gently by the elbow and led him backstage, past the green room, and into the alley behind Club Cassandra.

***

The alley was surprisingly serene, lit by a single bulb mounted next to the club’s back door. Its light illuminated Davy’s face from one side and made his eyes sparkle as he regarded Micky with a mix of amusement and concern.

“You are _so_ drunk,” Davy laughed, but quickly turned somber. “And you need to cool it with Ben.”

“I heard him on the phone with his girlfriend. Or boyfriend. Or whoever,” Micky protested, his voice too loud in the quiet alley. 

“Okay…” Davy’s response was tentative and quiet. He seemed intent on being polite, which Micky recognized as a precursor to Davy becoming annoyed. Annoyed because Micky had been eavesdropping on Ben. Annoyed because Micky was making assumptions. Annoyed because Micky was drunk and butting in on his relationships like a bull in a china shop. “Thank you for your concern. But—”

Micky grimaced. He _was_ a little drunk, but he needed to make Davy understand, even if it meant not minding his own business. “You don’t care? He’s just going to hurt you.” 

Davy’s expression softened considerably. His face had lost its guarded politeness, its skepticism, and a genuinely happy expression was creeping into their place. 

“Look, Micky, it’s okay,” Davy said, his smile still growing. “I’m not even attracted to Ben anymore. I haven’t been for awhile. It’s like I told you, I like someone else.”

“ _Who?_ ” Micky said, painfully aware that his tone bordered on hysteria. 

“Why should I tell you?” Davy was now transparently enjoying Micky’s discomfort: not in a cruel way, but almost irresistibly, as if it were attention he desperately wanted. 

“It’s driving me crazy,” Micky pleaded, knowing he had nothing to bargain with. “Please, just tell me, so I can let it go.”

“I don’t want you to let it go,” Davy said, his tone teasing.

Micky stared at Davy miserably, feeling hopeless just as Davy’s mood seemed to soar. Davy seemed to take pity on him then. He reached out and touched Micky’s chest gently with one hand, then playfully shoved him.

“It’s you, you git,” Davy said, looking up at Micky fixedly. 

They stared at each other in stunned silence until the back door opened into the alley and Mike poked his head out. “Are you two up for playing a few more songs? The manager says he’ll pay us extra.”

“Y-yeah,” Davy stammered, tucking his hands behind his back and attempting to look casual. “Be right there.”

“Cool, sure thing, Mike,” Micky added, taking a cue from Davy and leaning against the alley wall in an exaggerated way that he realized, too late, probably only emphasized how drunk he was. 

Mike looked suspicious. “You don’t care what we play? Usually Davy—”

“I don’t care,” Davy interrupted, looking deadly serious.

“Okay, well, good,” Mike said, giving each of them one more doubtful glance before disappearing inside and letting the door slam behind him.

“Me?” Micky said incredulously. “Why me?” Suddenly he was picturing himself instead of Ben at the restaurant, white table cloth, water glasses, gleaming silverware, Davy laughing at one of his jokes… 

Davy shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest in defiance. “Do you need me to write you a ballad?”

Micky opened his mouth to respond, hoping something coherent would come out, but nothing did; the two of them were fixed in space and time as though someone had snapped a photo: Micky wordlessly gaping and Davy staring at him expectantly. After a minute the door banged open again, shattering the crystalized scene. This time it was Peter. “Mike asked me to see if you guys were locked out here.”

“No, we’re coming,” Davy said briskly, and followed Peter back into the club.

***

Lying in bed later that night, Micky couldn’t remember how he’d managed to play 3 more songs. He couldn’t even remember what songs Mike had chosen for the encore, only that the crowd had seemed pleased, and the Cassandra’s manager had invited them back for the following Friday night. They said goodbye to Ben; was it awkward? Probably; he no longer cared. They drove home in near silence— Peter tried to make small talk about Ben, but Davy would only say “Yes, he’s a nice guy.”

Once he was sure Mike was asleep, Micky crept out of bed and downstairs. Davy was on the veranda, wearing one of Peter’s heavy jackets over his polka-dotted pajamas, leaning on the railing to look out at the darkened beach.

“Hey,” Micky said, putting a hand on the railing next to Davy.

“Hi,” Davy replied. He did not move, just stared ahead into the darkness. 

They listened to the waves lapping against the sand, somewhere beyond the light of the porch. 

Micky coughed. “How long have you— uh—”

“Awhile,” Davy sighed, still facing the beach. 

Micky nodded. “And you were never gonna tell me?”

“I didn’t want to make things weird.”

More silence against the backdrop of the ocean’s white noise. They were in a bubble of bright porch light, an intimate cell of light floating in the dense moonless nighttime.

“Well there’s the problem,” Micky began tentatively, adopting a matter-of-fact voice. “That’s not how Davy Jones operates.”

“Micky…” Davy turned, looking at him with exasperation. 

“Davy Jones makes a big declaration of love and everyone falls in line,” Micky continued. “Maybe you should try that instead.”

Davy opened his mouth, then closed it, looking confused. “I don’t understand.”

“Here. I’ll be you, and you be me,” Micky grabbed Davy’s shoulders and spun the two of them 180 degrees. He pushed his hair flat across his forehead and made his eyes as wide as he could. He did his best impression of Davy’s accent. “Micky, you’re div-INE.”

Davy smiled a little, shaking his head with embarrassment.

“Lovely, superb, fantastic, outstanding, taller than Peter,” Micky went on. “Uh, adequate hygiene, not a war criminal…” He trailed off, out of ideas.

“You make me laugh,” Davy said quietly. “You’re a good listener. You care about my stupid problems. You make me feel important.”

“You forgot ‘incredibly good looking,’” Micky joked, feeling his face get hot. Afraid of losing his nerve, he spun himself and Davy back around to their original positions. “Now I’ll be me. _Gosh, Davy, you’re so cute and sexy and fun. I think about you constantly. I can’t imagine my life without you. Let’s get together._ ” He said these words with the most dramatic flair he could muster, clutching his hands to his chest for emphasis.

Davy was laughing now, but his expression was cautious. “You’re absolutely crackers.”

“I think I really mean it, though,” Micky added soberly. “Anyway, it’s all true.”

“And you were never gonna tell me?” Davy echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“In my defense, I didn’t realize it was an option,” Micky said. 

“There are a lot of new options to consider, really,” Davy replied. He slipped one hand around Micky’s waist and one behind his head, tangling his fingers in Micky’s curls. Micky closed his eyes, not needing them open to visualize, with crystal clarity, Davy’s face pressed against his own, their lips touching and their mouths curving into surprised smiles.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by David Bowie.


End file.
